


The Space Between Us

by starsplitter



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2019-10-05 13:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17325767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsplitter/pseuds/starsplitter
Summary: Three years after the  decomissioning ceremony of Enterprise, Malcolm Reed receives an unexpected message from a former lover.Post-canon/AU, everyone is alive (including Trip).





	1. It Could Have Been Something Good

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself I would -never- write anything that is not canon or remotely falling under the category of "alternate universe".  
> And here I am, presenting you a piece that is completely post-canon/non-canon (... so much for my original plan). 
> 
> As per usual, comments and criticism are most welcome! :)
> 
>  
> 
> Minor spoilers for season 3, ep. 23 "Countdown".

The cold was bone-chilling.

 

Heavy fog laid over the Bay of San Francisco — so heavy in fact that the Golden Gate Bridge was barely visible. It had been unusually cold for December this year and he popped the collar of his jacket, trying to shield his neck from the frigid temperatures.

Last thing he needed was a bloody cold.

 

He snorted briefly. One would think that given where he was from a temperature of six degrees Celsius wouldn’t bother him that much, but the years he had spent on the West Coast of the United States had left their mark. He might as well have been in the arctic circle.

He checked his watch: 1615 hours on the dot, but daylight was vanishing quickly. His apartment was just about a mile and a half from Starfleet Headquarters, and while he could have taken a flitter or public transportation, he preferred walking. It gave him time to think. Especially now.

 

Malcolm Reed sighed.

A light drizzle set in, covering his jacket in a faint mist.

 

 

***

 

 

It had been over three years since Enterprise had returned from space.

He remembered the decommission celebrations (‘ _a bunch of ridiculous pomp and circumstance_ ’, and Reed snorted again), as well as hours upon hours of shaking hands and rubbing shoulders with high ranking Starfleet brass, having champaign and fancy hors d’oeuvres.

He also remembered that the MACOs — alongside with the United Earth Military Chief of Staff — had complained there hadn’t been enough “emphasis” on the role of their service members during the mission in the Expanse.

They probably had expected a goddamn military parade in their honor. A brief, lopsided grin flashed over Commander Malcolm Reed’s face.

It vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

 

Ten years.

Ten years had passed since the Xindi and Terra Prime. Ten years since they had left space dock, naively thinking of themselves as scientists, as explorers.

Somehow they had returned as war heroes, and it didn’t feel right.

Nearly all of them had come close to death on more than one occasion — some of them closer than others.

It had been sheer luck all of Enterprise’s senior staff members had returned home alive. God knows more than a few people serving aboard had been sent home in a casket.

 

And there it was again, the nagging guilt that hovered in the back of his mind and sometimes reared its ugly head: the fact that he, of all people, had made it out of the hellhole that was the Expanse, while others didn’t.

 

Maybe that was the reason the crew had somewhat drifted apart.

Sure, he still was in contact with plenty of them: Reed briefed Archer on a monthly basis on the latest developments in his field, and once in a blue moon he’d talk to Trip via video transmission.

 

Malcolm Reed would have expected that somehow their experiences would have held them together — thick as thieves, like they had been in the old days. And it wasn’t like he no longer consider them friends.

They were still his less complicated, less judgmental chosen family.

But the more time had passed, the more he had come to a very profound realization: They were lightyears apart, separated both by (in some cases) a physical distance, but mostly by a mental one.

 

And surprisingly enough, most of them also apparently never wanted to set foot into space again. Reed snorted at the irony.

 

Only Travis was actually _out there_ somewhere.

Having grown up on a cargo ship, everyone had their doubts he would feel comfortable on Earth for very long. And sure enough, when the first opportunity to serve on a cargo vessel came around, he had _buggered off_ more or less immediately.

Like he had never encountered the Expanse, the Xindi and what have you.

A part of Malcolm envied him for his optimism, his fearlessness and the ability to leave the past behind and start a new chapter so easily.

On the other hand it struck him as pure delusion and naivety, like Mayweather was recklessly toying with his own life.

 

And the rest of them?

As far as he was concerned, Phlox was back on Denobula, reunited with his wives, working on his studies. He traveled frequently for conferences and summits and from time to time came back to the Bay Area to pay Starfleet Medical a visit, exchanging the latests findings and to catch up with old friends.

 

T’Pol had gone back to Vulcan. He could only guess if the whole ordeal with Terra Prime had left a significant mark on her psyche, but if so she hadn’t shown much of it the last time he saw her.

For a while, Trip and her had remained in contact, grieving the loss of a child that both was and wasn’t really theirs, but as far as Reed was aware they hadn’t spoken in a couple years.

Something told him though that her resiliency — partially due to her cultural background as well as her personality — most likely had been of great help to her and that she was doing just fine. She wasn’t the sentimental type.

Then again, was there a Vulcan who really was?

 

Hoshi Sato had gone straight back into her teaching job that Archer had recruited her from on a whim right before Enterprise had left space dock.

She was brilliant; he remembered she had more than a few offers for quite prestigious positions on diplomatic space missions — all of which she denied. Reed distinctly recalled her mentioning some of them in detail the last time he had seen her a couple years ago.

She had stayed in San Francisco for a short vacation and the both of them as well as Trip — who at that time still lived in California — had ended up in a pub downtown, three sheets to the wind, where she had raised her fourth glass of Malbec and loudly proclaimed “Fuck space!”, much to the amusement of both him and Trip (and most likely the entire establishment).

 

Oh yeah, and Trip.

Charles Trip Tucker, Enterprise’s resident hick and eternal optimist. The Expanse had changed him the most, it seemed.

Reed remembered him in the first two years into their journey: hot-headed and with a mouth that was usually quicker than his brain.

And then Lizzie had died and the incident with Terra Prime had left him with a dead child — a child that might have been created in a lab, but nevertheless in part with his DNA.

Trip Tucker had become pensive and thoughtful, far different from when they had met. 

At first he thought that this would fade after a while.

Then he came to the realization that this was the new and improved Trip Tucker, boasting all the traits that he had wished for at their first encounter: quiet and reflective, carefully choosing his words and keeping more to himself. 

 

Somehow he missed the old Trip.

 

The last time he had seen him face to face had been at Trip’s wedding. He had left California after working at Starfleet Headquarters for years and settled back down in Florida. He reconnected with one of his old high school sweethearts and within a year they were engaged to be married.

Reed had met Tucker’s then-fiancée once before the wedding. He remembered photos of Natalie — a high-and-mighty, slightly vain southern belle — and expected someone similar.

But Danielle was different: She was cute, but not pretty in the traditional sense; her movements were a bit clumsy and she didn’t have Natalie’s very apparent self-assuredness.

Not to mention she bore no similarities to T’Pol — neither in looks nor in character, although Reed was aware you couldn’t compare a human to a Vulcan.

 

The wedding had taken place in early November on Trip’s parents’ estate up in Kentucky: a large, pseudo-antebellum ranch with a wooden front porch that wrapped round the structure and a dirt road leading up to it.

The ceremony took place at four o’clock in the afternoon, in midst of the golden hour. The air smelled crisp and had a faint bite to it, harbingers of the imminent Kentucky winter, but Reed couldn’t help but feel a warmth in the pit of his stomach when he witnessed the couple exchange their vows. He was Trip’s best man, despite the fact that besides his former fellow crew members and the couple he knew practically none out of the hundreds of guests.

 

Shortly after the ceremony everyone had gotten somewhat tipsy, and by dinnertime and dessert most people at the wedding were trollied, including the couple.

Trip got choked up during his speech when mentioning Lizzie and had to excuse himself for a bit shortly after he had finished.

Malcolm Reed didn’t remember how he even had gotten back to his room at a bed and breakfast in a town close by.

 

They had mostly talked through video communication after that. Just months after the wedding, Danielle — as somewhat expected — had announced her pregnancy, and soon after Charles Tucker IV had been born.

They’d gone on to have another child, a girl whose name Malcolm Reed perpetually escaped.

 

After returning to Earth, Archer had been promoted to Admiral.

Being Chief of Staff at Starfleet Command had put a significant distance between him and Reed. He knew that Jonathan Archer viewed him as a friend and thought highly of him, according to Trip.

But Malcolm Reed didn’t feel comfortable around Archer the Admiral.

Seeing his rank insignia immediately reminded him of his late father — ‘ _May he rot in hell’_ , he added mentally — and evoked a plethora of feelings that might have nothing to do with Archer himself, but caused him to sense an underlying hostility where there probably was none.

Yet Archer hadn’t changed that much seemingly — yes, he as well had become more quiet and thoughtful, just like Trip had, and one could chalk that up to the experiences in the Expanse or simply age.

His interactions with Malcolm were still very much the same as they had been on their time on Enterprise. Archer still doted on Porthos, who probably was old as dirt now and still didn’t know how to fetch.

But there was little common ground between them.

 

 

Just months after returning to Earth Malcolm Reed had contemplated to take on another assignment to space. He liked his position as tactical officer, and it would grant him the necessary distance from his past and his family.

But the closer it came to making a decision after Enterprise’s decommission and his following month-long leave, he stalled. Eventually, he took a position in San Francisco at Starfleet Headquarters, working for the Weapons and Defense Department.

He had enjoyed it very much, but it was Harris — just a couple months before his very unexpected death — who had suggested another path of career for him (with the promise that he’d put “a good word in” for Malcolm).

Reed knew Harris didn’t just do this out of a gesture of goodwill.

After he had provided vital information on Terra Prime, he had warned Reed that he wouldn’t just hand out intel for free — this would come at a price.

 

And as announced after the Terra Prime incident, Harris suddenly appeared out of nowhere again and made Malcolm Reed an offer that he _shouldn’t pass up_ , as Harris had put it.

 

Reed had liked working in his previous position. It was no secret he had a love for weapons and he liked calibrating defense systems — a monotonous task that required him to be precise. He found it soothing.

Harris had suggested a position with Starfleet Intelligence. As an intelligence analyst, Malcolm Reed would have access to highly classified information and source information about possible threats not only to Starfleet HQ, but also to all vessels currently on missions.

At first he had been doubtful whether he was even cut out to be an analyst. Not to mention that as a security officer, he did have clearance to handle some classified information, but certainly not the security clearance needed for this kind of work.

Harris had reassured him that would be no problem — and a week later, after numerous tests, interviews and background checks, Commander Malcolm Reed was _good to go_.

 

For the longest time Malcolm couldn’t figure out why Harris had chosen him of all people.

Then it dawned on him: He still was indebted to Harris in some way due to the information he received about Terra Prime. Harris needed someone who was somehow still affiliated with Section 31 within the hallowed halls of Starfleet Intelligence — and upon realizing this he couldn’t help but feel like Harris had played him.

 

Malcolm Reed had left the organization long ago. He wasn’t part of Section 31 anymore. But in the end, maybe it was his own fault: Despite having cut ties with Harris and his kind he, Malcolm Reed, had kept crawling back to him like a rueful child begging for classified information.

Talk about giving mixed signals. Malcolm Reed huffed quietly.

 

Shortly before Harris had passed Reed had handed over a bunch of documents that seemed fairly insignificant even in his line of work, but Harris had requested them. He had just started his position and was sure if word got out about this incident, he’d be fired not only from his position, but discharged from Starfleet altogether — and not in an honorable way.

Instead nothing happened. A few weeks later Harris had died, and to this day Reed had no idea whatever the point had been in handing over the files.

 

After that, it had been radio silence from his former employer. Section 31 had remained quiet for years now, although Reed wasn’t sure if they simply were watching him closely without him necessarily knowing or if they simply had found others that gathered top secret information for them.

 

In the end, he wasn’t altogether sad about his change in career path. He made good money, and the work hours were less strenuous than they had been when he still worked on calibrating torpedoes — partially due to a change in his own work ethics.

Now that he was in the intel field, he worked diligently, but he had an easier time _letting go_. In some ways it reminded him a bit less of his time on Enterprise.

 

It provided distance.

Closure.

Exactly what he had needed.

Until out of nowhere, Hayes had suddenly contacted him again.

 

Of all people: Hayes.

 

 

***

 

 

He hadn’t been able to tell when the severe disdain for each other had turned into something else.

 

Maybe after their sparring match that completely derailed and left them both with severe injuries, a reprimand from the Captain and extended psychological evaluation exams conducted by Phlox.

Not to mention that for over a week basically the whole ship had been running their mouths not just about the incident, but about the reasoning behind their spat.

 

From there their relationship (if you could call it that at all) had gradually transformed:

From a tentative mutual respect at first to working together without open hostility and constant brawls.

By no means had they truly liked each other — at least that’s what Reed had tried to insist on — but they tolerated each other in their respective territories.

 

The breaking point came when the Major had almost died during a rescue mission.

Hoshi had been abducted by the Xindi and Archer had decided to send the MACOs out to bring her back. It had made sense at that time — they were trained for tasks like these, the _best of the best_.

In hindsight, Reed had felt he should have led the away mission, but the Captain had insisted he stayed aboard Enterprise.

 

Everyone had come back with minor scrapes and bruises — Kelly, Money and Richards, even Ensign Sato was barely injured despite her time in Xindi confinement.

Everyone but Hayes.

After beaming the away team back on Enterprise one by one it became clear very quickly that the Major’s injuries were so severe he might not make it.

 

Once Phlox had to revive him.

The disruptor wound in his chest was a gaping hole: Malcolm Reed remembered the repulsing scent of blood mixed with burned flesh, a memory he still wasn’t able to shake.

 

After the incident Hayes had remained in a coma for weeks.

 

 

Being the eternal pessimist, Malcolm Reed had been convinced Hayes would not make it.

Everyday he would mentally prepare himself for the inevitable — Phlox or the Captain would either comm him personally first, or there would be a meeting announcing the passing of Major Jeremiah Hayes. After that, Reed would have to head over to the MACO contingent, be the bearer of bad news and subsequently make an executive decision as to who would replace Hayes.

He had dreaded it.

 

In hindsight, maybe his fear had stemmed from something different — the fact that he had been worried about Hayes. He hadn’t dared to admit it, but as he had spent most of his days alone in the armory again, he kind of missed the banter between them (even if he still felt like Hayes was a condescending _wanker_ and had a ridiculously inflated ego).

 

Against all expectations, Hayes had made it out alive — three weeks after the rescue mission he had awoken from his coma. He had stayed in sickbay for another two weeks, recovering from his injuries, but insisted on returning to duty after that, despite the fact that Phlox would have liked to keep him on bedrest a bit longer.

 

Malcolm Reed remembered how awkward their first meeting after the incident had been for him. He had felt a sense of shame for more or less expecting Hayes wouldn’t survive, and this guilty feeling stayed with him for the next couple of weeks — a constant reminder that maybe he, in fact, was the “grim reaper” that Trip once had accused him of being.

The incident had seemed to have changed the Major. He had been more tense around his people, hardened and even more difficult to get along with at times.

 

It wasn’t until a month after he had cheated death that he had started opening up unexpectedly during one of their late nights in the armory running training simulations.

That was the first time Malcolm Reed had become aware that Major Jeremiah Hayes’ carefully crafted façade of military competence and integrity wasn’t as solid as he tried to make his fellow MACOs (and Enterprise’s crew) believe.

It had revealed a new side of Hayes to Malcolm Reed — proof that the Major, in fact, was human. 

Before this, Hayes had seemed to be very two-dimensional to Reed: mostly _efficiency_ and military obedience, either barking out commands or remaining unyieldingly silent.

Now suddenly there had been a new Major Jeremiah Hayes: one who had, in few yet powerful glimpses, shown his fears and the trauma of someone who recently had escaped death.

Malcolm Reed couldn’t tell if this had been the turning point in the way they had interacted with each other.

Just like before, their conversations had remained brief — gruff and unceremonious almost — yet they relied on each other, coordinating training sessions and analyzing tactical simulations while discussing topics that had nothing to do with their work or the mission.

 

As he previously had suspected, him and Hayes had more in common than he would have liked to admit: Raised in military families, they both had experienced the at times cold discipline from an early age on and felt the burden of expectations that laid upon them.

And neither of them had strayed far from the path that had been paved by their fathers and grandfathers — well, maybe for the exception of Malcolm joining Starfleet instead of the Royal Navy.

 

When he told Hayes the story of this whole debacle — including the moment where his father had gotten so worked up the entire Reed family had been worried … no, _prepared for_ that his old man might suffer a heart attack — the Major had barked out a laugh so loud Reed was sure he had woken up the entire ship.

 

It had felt good to hear Hayes laugh like that.

 

 

 

Malcolm didn’t remember when exactly their tentative friendship had changed into something different.

In the beginning stages of said shift he had thought that he was misinterpreting signals and that the distinct innuendo that accompanied some of Hayes’ comments was purely his imagination (or wishful thinking, maybe).

It was the way Major Jeremiah Hayes had looked at him: intent, curious and stern, yet with an underlying hint of tenderness.

For weeks and months, Hayes’ actions had caused him a kind of emotional turmoil he hadn’t experienced in a very long time.

He hadn’t been willing to admit it, but seeing Hayes after his shift — whether it was for combat training sessions with the MACOs or to analyze simulations in the armory together — had filled him with an almost giddy anticipation.

And Reed had hated himself for it.

He was the tactical officer and head of security of a starship, not a lovesick teenager.

 

Malcolm Reed knew he’d been accused of being many things:

Being standoff-ish.

Making calculated, yet at times cruel and snarky comments that had the potential of hurting and insulting others.

Having “a stick up his ass”, as a fellow classmate at the academy had put it.

It took most people a while to figure him out and to appreciate his strengths: His loyalty; his witty, dry humor and his competence in both his field of work as well as in playing wingman on late Friday nights at the pub.

He was proud of the fact he was an acquired taste. He wasn’t an open book that easily gave all its secrets away upon the first glance.

 

Major Jeremiah Hayes saw right through him.

A fact that had both bothered and excited Reed.

 

In hindsight maybe the smarter thing would have been to have pulled away from Hayes and to let these feelings the Major had stirred up settle for a while — at least until the Xindi mission had been over.

But all of this had gone out the window one night after an especially tedious simulation, when Hayes had grabbed him by the collar of his boiler suit uniform and manhandled him against one of the bulkheads in the armory. 

The bump on the back of his head — stemming from this rather unfortunate accident — had stayed with him for over a week, but at that moment he couldn’t be _arsed_ to care because Hayes’ lips were warm and surprisingly soft.

 

 

From there on everything had changed: Sneaking out to Hayes’ quarters like a thief in the middle of the night, followed by an early morning walk of shame back to his quarters before the corridors were bustling with crewmen heading to their posts for the alpha shift.

Hastily locked doors and swiftly punched in security codes to access rooms on the ship that were rarely used, where they loved — no, not loved, _fucked_ — in secret, hands covering mouths to not let a single moan or heavy breath escape.

Practically all the time Reed had kept a small tube of lotion in the sleeve pocket of his jumpsuit: an item inconspicuous enough to pass as something one would carry around.

He relished the thought that nobody but the two of them knew of its real purpose.

 

What had started in secret soon after became a game of daring each other to see who’d go further: Hayes would grab Reed and bite his lip in the turbolift right before the doors opened.

And Malcolm Reed would _by accident_ stand so close behind Hayes during briefings that his breath gently brushed the Major’s neck, knowing well what this did to the man.

Reading Hayes’ reactions had taken a lot of practice: it filled him with a strange sense of satisfaction that he knew exactly when the Major was struggling to keep his composure.

 

They were playing with fire, but the danger of being caught was half of the thrill of it.

For the first time in their lives, they had abandoned their principles.

 

 

It could have stayed that way: A _workplace affair_ , a simple means to relieve stress on a mission they might not return from. A convenient distraction, nothing more.

But then feelings had gotten in the way — and Malcolm Reed didn’t like feelings, if he was perfectly honest. Eventually, he had to admit to himself that he cared more about the Major than he liked to.

 

In the dim light of his quarters, he had mapped out every centimeter of Jeremiah Hayes’ body: every scar, every birth mark, even the small dimples on each side of his lower back right above his butt.

The way he clenched his jaw when he slept and the faint noise of his molars grinding together in the wee hours of the morning, right before Reed had to leave to head back to his quarters.

The glances Hayes shot him when nobody else was watching — tender, protective … loving.

 

Jeremiah Hayes wasn’t a man big words, preferring actions over sweet talk, not keen on promises made in the spur of a moment.

Unlike Malcolm he was straightforward and didn’t overcomplicate things.

 

After they had returned to Earth Hayes had applied to several positions in the San Francisco area to either become a drill instructor with United Earth Military or to shift sectors altogether and work in the contracting field, overseeing military operations as a civilian.

He casually had let this piece of information slip one time during dinner.

They’d been in downtown San Francisco just weeks after they had returned, a Friday night, the restaurant bursting at the seams with people.

When Jeremiah talked about the positions and their perks (the most significant of them not being away all the time), everything had gone quiet around Malcolm: conversations around them suddenly became muffled, busy waitresses had moved in slow-motion, background noises began to sound distorted.

He felt like he was drowning, slipping into a dissociated state.

 

At first, he thought he was delighted.

Then he had realized what he actually felt was panic.

 

Reed knew about the implied sacrifice: Hayes, the man who had essentially lived for his duty with the MACOs ever since he joined boot camp at a young age, offered to settle down somewhere.

No more space missions. No more deployments to combat zones. Instead of having to ship out from a different space port every six to twelve months, he would have had the chance to be around permanently.

 

Yet the longer the unspoken offer hung between them the more Reed had dragged his feet:

No, he wasn't sure whether he would return to do another space mission. No, San Francisco definitely wasn’t a place he’d like to stay for longer.

Maybe he’d stay at Starfleet Headquarters, but if anything it wouldn’t be for long.

 

Instead, he had considered going back to England, even if the potential geographical closeness to his family made him feel uncomfortable.

 

 

And just like Hayes had put the offer on the table — without much ado and many big words — he had retracted it: quietly and without making a speech.

Reed had made a decision, even if it was by not making a decision at all.

Deep down he had known Hayes wouldn’t stick around and let himself be strung along infinitely.

Eventually he had informed Malcolm that he’d be sent to another deep space mission and would be leaving within a two-week time frame.

 

 

That was it.

 

 

He had dropped Hayes off at San Francisco Space Port that day.

The drive had been quiet and somber — in hindsight, Reed guessed, they both had known that this was the end.

 

“ _It could have been something good_.”

 

Those had been Hayes’ last words before he boarded the shuttle.

To Reed they had felt like a punch to the gut, the kind that Hayes liked to throw during their initial sparring matches — an irony that hadn’t been lost on Malcolm.

On the drive home, sitting in a rented flitter that definitely had seen better days, Malcolm Reed had sobbed like a child: Grieving everything that could have been, regretting his inability to admit his true feelings, missing Hayes and despising him at the same time (because he had left).

 

When he had arrived home, he discarded the bedsheets that still had Hayes’ scent clinging to them and purged his home of every single trace of Jeremiah Hayes’ existence in his life — letters, pictures, and a random post-it note in Hayes’ handwriting that had been stuck to the fridge.

The next week he had spent in a perpetual stupor.

But after that he had gone back to normal, proud and stubborn, ignoring how much everythinghurt.

 

Sporadically Hayes would message him, and sometimes Malcolm would answer.

 

But for the last year and a half it had been radio silence from the MACO.

In some ways, Reed had been thankful for this: it had provided him with time to heal and to forget.

The last time they had seen each other face to face had been roughly three years ago. It felt like an eternity, like a completely different life.

And now Hayes had, by sending a simple message, quietly and almost innocently invaded his life again: a few words that — with the force of a disruptor — had torn open Malcolm Reed’s core, leaving him confused, angry, sad and elated at the same time.

 

He had read over the lines over and over again: both amused and annoyed at the lax grammar and the taciturnity of Hayes’ inquiry.

 

 

“ _I’ll be in San Francisco for a bit. You still stationed there?_ ”

 

 

***

 

 

His first thought was how much Hayes had changed — yet at the same time he hadn’t changed at all.

He recognized Jeremiah by the way he walked (slightly stiff and overly _military_ ) and carried himself: in a space port crowded with people he immediately knew it was him.

Reed watched him intently as he walked through the door to the baggage claim terminal to pick up his luggage.

A black backpack and one small MACO-issued duffle bag was everything Hayes had brought.

 

Malcolm chuckled.

 

What a very _Hayes_ thing to do: He probably had brought one uniform and one civilian outfit and that was it.

‘ _Stuff ruins trips’_ was a mantra Jeremiah Hayes had repeated over and over, and he seemingly hadn't abandoned his rule.

 

Hayes was in uniform, the same muddy grey and brown digital camouflage print, emblem on his right sleeve, rank on the left; and for a moment to Reed it felt like nothing had changed, like time simply had stood still for three years.

Then he looked at Hayes and saw a few specks of grey hair around his temples and the fine lines that framed his eyes: quiet reminders that — unexpectedly — they both had aged, that despite everything they had gone through they were _alive_.

 

Hayes looked him up and down, and an awkward feeling spread in Malcolm Reeds stomach.

 

“Lieutenant Colonel…”

 

Hayes flinched for a brief second.

 

“Colonel will do just fine.”

Hayes’ reply was bone dry and matter-of-fact.

 

For years they had stuck to addressing each other with their ranks: It had started on Enterprise as a way to keep some form of professional distance and to keep suspicious fellow crew members at bay. After they had returned back they had become so used to using rank that it had become a term of endearment.

Reed had known that Hayes had been promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, but he hadn’t been aware that Jeremiah Hayes had climbed the career ladder even further.

Not that it really was a big surprise though, as ambitious and driven as he was.

 

‘ _Way to go, Reed. Just address the man you used to shag with the wrong rank. You’re an idiot_.’

 

He cleared his throat, but the heavy feeling of embarrassment wouldn’t budge.

“My apologies, I had no idea …”

 

“No hard feelings,” Hayes cut in and for a moment he revealed one of his rare smiles, “you look well.”

 

The awkward feeling in the pit of Malcolm Reed’s stomach spread further.

 

“Thanks. How was your flight?”

 

Changing the topic would do: Out of very few people, Reed knew how much Jeremiah Hayes hated flying. Especially landing.

 

A brief grunt told him the truth, but Hayes answered nevertheless.

“It wasn’t too bad.”

 

Malcolm smiled at the thinly veiled lie. He was certain Hayes knew he saw right through him — the Colonel probably had died a thousand times over as the shuttle descended.

Reed didn’t ask any further questions though.

 

“Taxi’s waiting,” he simply replied.


	2. 24 Préludes, Op. 28: No.12 in G-Sharp Minor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting doesn't go too well. Malcolm Reed dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taking me forever to write this, mainly because I've hit a couple road blocks this month (a sick pet, massive writer's block, you name it). Here's to hoping that chapter three won't take as long.

The first thing he noticed was Hayes’ scent that lingered in his apartment.

Apparently — being the creature of habit he was — the Colonel hadn’t changed his aftershave in the last couple years and the subtle, familiar fragrance followed Hayes as he had entered Reed’s living space.

 

Hayes had booked a hotel room not far from Starfleet HQ, but Reed had felt obligated to invite him over for either tea or a drink.

He had considered making a reservation at some Sushi place downtown, but then had had second thoughts — given his volatile emotional state he didn’t want to be in public much, at least not until all conceivably _unpleasant_ conversations were over.

 

Jeremiah had excused himself to grab a shower, leaving his uniform neatly folded on the guest bed. His boots sat next to his duffle and backpack.

Malcolm fixed them with a stare and felt a wave of mixed emotions run through him — discomfort, anger, regret maybe?

 

Hell, he didn’t even know.

 

 

The sound of the bathroom door opening pulled him out of his thoughts, and as he left the guest room he encountered Hayes — a towel wrapped around his hips, drying his hair — standing in the hallway.

Reed flinched when he saw the cicatrix of the disruptor wound on his chest.

 

 

It had been the first of Hayes’ scars he’d mapped out in detail: Every single crater, every single uneven elevation in the scar tissue; the low light of his quarters back on Enterprise, Hayes and him crammed into the tiny bunk bed, talking in hushed voices.

 

He remembered the feel of it. How it had become proof of survival.

How he, beginning at the scar in the middle of Hayes’ chest, had explored every inch of his skin:

As much as he hated to admit it, he had worshipped Hayes; his body, his _soul_.

It had hurt a lot to let him go, and in hindsight Reed couldn’t make heads or tails out of his own behavior — why every time someone became important he ran away like his life depended on it.

 

When Hayes finally cleared his throat Malcolm snapped out of his thoughts.

He turned halfway toward the kitchen, evading Jeremiah’s puzzled glance, and choked out: “I made tea. Coffee for you. If you want any.”

 

Hayes didn’t drink tea.

 

“That would be nice,” Hayes simply replied.

But for a brief moment, without a hint of sarcasm or condescension, he smiled at Reed: honest and affectionate.

 

And for a brief moment, Malcolm Reed’s heart sank a bit and a wave of nausea hit him, and he remembered _everything_.

 

 

***

 

The warm mug of tea felt good in his hands.

Reed watched intently as the cream he had poured into it formed clouds in the amber liquid.

They had sat in silence for a while, awkwardly shuffling around in their seats at the small kitchen table, the plate of shortbread cookies sitting untouched — unsurprisingly.

Hayes didn’t like sweets. Neither did he, really — he kept them around for whenever Madeline came to visit.

 

Finally, Malcolm sucked in a deep breath and braced himself for the unpleasant part of the day.

 

“If you don’t mind me asking… why did you want to see me?”

 

Was that too blunt? Too direct? Did it sound hostile?

If the Colonel was offended, he didn’t show it.

 

Hayes simply swirled the coffee around in his cup, took a long swig and simply said:

 

“I was thinking about you. About us.”

 

The honesty unsettled Malcolm, despite the fact that he knew Jeremiah wasn’t one to beat around the bush.

 

“Marshal Casey notified me that my unit would train here for the next three weeks. United Earth and the Assault Commando thinks that Starfleet’s combat strategies and tactics are not up to snuff in their current state,” a lopsided, sarcastic smile tugged at the corners of Hayes’ mouth, “so we’re here to fix that.”

 

The lopsided smile became a full-blown grin.

 

“Bastard,” Reed retorted, trying to stifle a laugh. He had the hardest time admitting it, but he had missed their banter.

 

“There’s something else.”

And just like they had switched back to their old ways, the familiar feeling was gone again and Hayes had retracted into his shell of polite aloofness.

“They offered me a position here in San Francisco. Apparently they want me out of the combat zones. Well, I mean, they do have a point. I’m too old for this crap,” he let out a heavy grunt.

 

“I’d be working at a joint command of United Earth Military and the MACOs. Logistics, strategizing, that kind of stuff — nothing overly exciting, I guess, and I might end up pushing a lot of paperwork. But the job pays well and there’s an option for retiring a couple years early. If they let me, that is.”

 

Malcolm nodded slowly.

He had a hard time imagining Hayes being retired. Most likely he’d still get up at 0430 hours on the dot, keeping a military regimen, not knowing what to do with himself in a life _after duty_.

 

“My point is …,” Hayes paused for a while, seemingly struggling for words. “You said you weren’t going to stick around at Starfleet HQ for long. And I’m not sure if you maybe have plans to move location soon.”

 

For a moment Reed was catapulted back into the past: To the exact moment they had been sitting at the restaurant in downtown San Francisco, where Hayes had hinted at his plans to stick around for the first time and the feelings this had evoked in him.

The same panic spread silently, seeping into every corner of his core, leaving him terrified.

He knew what Hayes was getting at.

 

“You mean, you’d like to …,” Malcolm trailed off. He didn’t even know what to say, so there was no point in talking.

 

“When I came here I was prepared you’d be out in space again somewhere. But it seems like you don’t have any real intention to leave Starfleet Headquarters or your position anytime soon,” the Colonel’s tone had become somewhat accusatory.

Malcolm felt the initial panic turn into anger.

 

“And so you thought since I didn’t get my arse up to leave this place we could simply pretend nothing ever had happened?”

 

He flinched at the harshness of his words.

‘ _Well that sounded a lot more hostile than necessary. Outstanding, Reed. Way to turn this into pissing match_.’

 

The sound of Hayes’ mug slamming on the kitchen table filled the air.

While the Colonel had mellowed out over time — long gone were the days where they had sparred and argued over nothing — Malcolm still knew that Hayes tended to be hot-headed and quickly frustrated.

But he easily caught himself again; letting out a long, slow breath.

The only thing that gave his anger away was how he stared at Malcolm: Eyes narrowed and fierce, the same piercing glance that had seen right through him before.

 

“Yeah, kind of…,” he drawled out the ‘ _yeah_ ’; his voice drenched with sarcasm and spite.

“Obviously, since I have nothing better to do than pine after an ex who couldn’t decide.”

 

The remark stung — corrosive, acid-like. That was the other side of Hayes: His pride easily injured, behind his military restraint and integrity and supposed _selfless service_ a fragile ego.

He wasn’t someone you wanted to cross.

 

“All cynicism aside, Malcolm,” his voice had suddenly become quiet.

“I really wondered if showing up out of nowhere was a good idea. And I guess it wasn’t, at least it doesn’t seem to be. But I am still thinking a lot about everything. About you, to be precise.”

 

‘ _No, don’t say it_.’

Reed could deal with many aspects of his former lover: There was sarcastic Hayes that had grown on him over time.

There was cynical Hayes, who used words full of venom and malevolence — harder to deal with, but he was a Reed after all, his upbringing had taught him to deal with that, too.

But this was open, raw and honest Hayes and he didn’t know what to do with this other aspect of his personality.

 

“This is the last time I am going to try this,” Jeremiah continued. “I feel that this whole thing with _us_ …,” he drew gestures in the air with his coffee spoon, “deserves a second chance, but if you don’t want it, that’s up to you. I promise you, I won’t bother you again with this whole idea if that’s your final decision.”

 

He watched Hayes get up, unable to say or do anything (or at least get up himself), paralyzed by his truthfulness.

Instead he stared into the milky liquid in his mug, listening to Jeremiah Hayes pack his uniform and zip up his duffel bag, the sound of heavy boots creaking on the hardwood floors of his apartment, the scent of Hayes’ aftershave fading.

 

He didn’t turn around, but knew that Hayes was standing in the kitchen door, just about to leave.

 

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

 

Malcolm Reed didn’t even manage to nod.

All he heard was his apartment door fall shut.

 

 

‘ _Fuck_.’

 

***

 

He listened to the staccato of the piano — a driven, almost gloomy, but mostly aggressive melody haunting him; making him clutch the PADD tighter in is hand.

 

_24 Préludes, Op. 28: No.12 in G-Sharp Minor._

 

How many times did Hayes make him sit through it — a piece resembling an etude, but most of all the volley of gunfire?

 

Hayes loved, no, _adored_ Chopin; especially said piece.

To Malcolm, it was a minute and eleven seconds of torture.

But Hayes had relished the precision of it: Where Malcolm heard aggression and agitation, Hayes saw order, clarity and accuracy.

 

 

He paused the music on the PADD and sat up with a huff, pushing away a couple of decorative throw pillows to the other side of the couch — the same throw pillows that Hayes had relentlessly made fun of him for after he had just moved into his apartment.

 

The question was, if he didn’t like the twenty-four Preludes (and Chopin in general) anyway, why did _he_ force himself to listen to them?

 

‘ _Because you are a bloody masochist, Reed._ ’

Oh, yeah. Right.

 

And probably also because it was the first thing that had stuck out to him about Jeremiah Hayes the _human_ , not the soldier:

Contrary to his hardened, almost cold and insensitive personality, he loved classical music. He kept his living space meticulously tidy and organized, yet easily forgot about appointments and dates if he didn’t diligently remind himself.

Deep down, Reed knew, Hayes also longed for something like a family, even if it wasn’t in the traditional sense. He needed security, a place that he could return to again and again.

 

The more he had dared to look behind the shell of (then) _Major_ Hayes, the more he had discovered _Jeremiah_ Hayes — his dreams and his weaknesses alike.

And to think that it all had started out with this: 24 Préludes, Op. 28: No.12 in G-Sharp Minor.

 

 

Malcolm Reed shook his head.

For a while, he wandered aimlessly in his apartment, not knowing what to do with himself.

 

 

For a while, he simply stared at the empty guest room. Just hours before, Hayes’ things had been stored here — the duffel bag at the end of the guest bed, the boots neatly placed next to it.

This now seemed like a completely different life; or like it had never happened at all.

He didn’t know which scenario was worse.

 

Every time he thought of opening himself up to the _possibilities_ — allowing Hayes to enter his life permanently — something revolted in him, no matter how much he actually longed for it.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he went into his bedroom.

 

Skipping dinner and neglecting to pull down the blinds, he went to bed, where he — almost immediately — fell into a sleep so deep he might as well have been dead.

 

 

***

 

Malcolm Reed awoke all of a sudden, realizing his alarm hadn’t gone off.

After a short moment of panic, he realized it was Saturday, but by that point his brain had already been jolted awake.

The pale light of dawn hadn’t even fully dispelled night yet. Venus hung low on the predawn sky.

 

 

“ _Neptune and back in six minutes_.”

 

 

He remembered Archer’s favorite quote whenever he talked about his ship.

Then memories from last night trickled back into his mind.

 

 

He had dreamed of his father — of one of the last times he had seen the old bastard before he had passed away, to be precise.

A couple of years ago he had visited his parents over the holidays, a stiff family gathering of the four of them, where — while his mum had served turkey and roast potatoes — his old man had dished out various insults to everyone.

He had nagged Madeline because she still wasn’t married with children (she also to this point had no intent of changing this anytime soon).

Then he extensively had mocked Malcolm for lacking discipline and drive, since he hadn’t been promoted in a while.

The only one who was spared that day was his mother, but that might as well have been because it was Christmas, and it would have been _impolite_ to criticize the cook on this occasion.

 

In his dream though, his father — his skin pale and almost of a greenish tint — had accused Malcolm not only of the aforementioned like he had actually done; but his tirade had quickly shifted to take a completely different turn.

Instead of just mocking his slow-going career, he had pointed a fork at him and yelled:

 

“Loneliness is the punishment of the weak.”

 

Stabbing the fork closer and closer into Malcolm’s direction, he had yelled this sentence over and over, fading into nothingness as Malcolm jolted awake.


	3. More Than A Decade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madeline Reed to the rescue.

For a while he just laid there, his clothes from the previous day uncomfortably sticking to his body, trying to make sense of the strange scenarios his brain had to come up with.

Everything had felt so _real_ — even the surreal and absurd scenario of his old man trying to stab him with a fork.

 

Dawn crept into his bedroom, the sky melting from pale blue into yellow and fiery orange. Malcolm Reed flung an arm over his eyes.

 

“ _Loneliness is the punishment of the weak_.”

 

What a bunch of bollocks. Complete and utter bollocks.

He had relished solitude all his life and he wasn’t weak by any means. He was _comfortable_ being on his own.

With a huff of frustration he re-arranged the wad of pillows underneath his head and turned away from the light seeping in through his window.

He needed to sort out the thoughts that kept spinning in his head at light speed — a mixture of dream fragments, actual memories and the desperate attempt to make sense of what his subconscious was trying to tell him.

Reed closed his eyes. His head hurt.

 

 

 

_He traced a finger down the curve of his lover’s back, following his spine._

_Softness was nothing one would associate with Jeremiah Hayes, the MACO; but his skin felt almost silken under his fingertips._

_He stopped at the dimples right above the curve of his ass, turning around and following the same path back, tracing up to Hayes’ shoulder blades._

_Halfway up his way he stopped, just where he could feel Jeremiah’s lower ribs, focusing on a small scar where he had received a couple of stitches: Silent witness of an incident a few years ago, where a bullet had grazed him._

 

_They were back in his quarters on Enterprise, that much Malcolm Reed knew._

_Which meant that this was a dream — he hadn’t been on Enterprise in what, thirteen years?_

_None of this was real._

_But he still remembered the night all of this had happened: the heavy, warm feeling of afterglow still spreading through his limbs, Hayes’ frame next to him rising and falling with his slow, steady breath._

_Tangled limbs and bodies that — with a little time and practice — now fit together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle on the tiny bunk bed._

 

_“That tickles,” Jeremiah’s voice — low and sleepy — still gave away his discontent. The Major didn’t like to be touched in that particular spot._

_He remembered he had mumbled a half-hearted apology._

_That was the moment Hayes had turned around to face him. So did the version of Jeremiah Hayes in his dream._

 

_To Malcolm Reed’s great surprise, it wasn’t the Major that faced him per se: It was Colonel Hayes, his eyes framed with fine lines and wrinkles that time had carved, salt and pepper hair in his sideburns and around his temples, his eyelids a little more hooded than when they had met._

_He had the same look on his face though, the same piercing green eyes that had captivated Malcolm before, the same intent and inquiring look on his face._

 

_Turning on his side, resting his head on the heel of his hand, he looked at Malcolm and his voices so quiet Reed could barely make out what he said:_

 

_“I was thinking about you. About us.”_

 

_Malcolm was about to mouth a silent “I know”, but his body suddenly felt limp, his throat drier than a desert and he couldn’t move for the life of him._

 

_Hayes’ hand brushed over his side, sending a wave of electric shocks through him, his fingers finally coming to rest at the curve of Malcolm's waist._

 

_“Thirteen years,” he simply said. “More than a decade.”_

_And his green eyes were as bright and intent as ever._

 

 

 

When Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed awoke once again, the sun stood high in the sky, drenching his bedroom in light. He checked the clock. 1245 hours — past noon.

He didn’t remember the last time he had slept this long. Or dreamed that vividly, for that matter.

Between the old bastard and his long lost lover visiting him in his sleep, the day didn’t have much potential to get worse.

On top of that, the mild headache from this morning had turned into a full-blown migraine.

He clumsily rolled out of bed and trotted into his kitchen, where he opted for coffee instead of tea — a rarity and once more proof that today wasn’t his day _whatsoever_.

 

Plopping himself down heavily on the kitchen table, he buried his head in his hands.

Within fourty-eight hours of Hayes messaging him and his subsequent visit, he had hit a wall. He didn’t know what exactly to do, he didn’t know how to figure himself out anymore. 

This was the bloody reason he had stayed away from Hayes in the first place, always keeping him at an arm’s length — the man had a remarkable talent for sending him into a tailspin of emotional turmoil.

He needed peace.

Perspective.

Hell, he needed someone to help him figure himself out.

 

‘ _What, Reed, you now just figured out you need to see a bloody shrink? With your history?’_ he thought sourly.

 

No, he knew since years that at one point his façade would crack — it wasn’t some sort of secret. He had lived on borrowed time all his life; and to be perfectly honest it surprised him he hadn’t snapped at a sooner point.

But why now? Why did Hayes have this much power over him?

 

For a while he contemplated calling up Trip.

Then he remembered that Trip hadn’t even known about the things that had developed between Hayes and him.

All that he was aware of was that the then-Major and Malcolm had figured out their issues and gotten along better a some point — case closed.

It would be highly awkward to spring this revelation onto him out of the blue.

 

That left … well, not many people he’d be willing to share such highly sensitive information with. Usually he simply figure out these things by himself, whether it was by choice or because he didn’t know who to confide in.

 

 

He could always call Madeline.

 

 

Before he even could think about whether this was a good idea or if it was plain and simply rude to call her up out of the blue at 9 p.m. on a Sunday, he had already dialed her number via video communiqué.

 

 

***

 

 

Her blonde hair up in a high ponytail, Madeline Reed hadn’t even tried to hide her surprise that Malcolm had called her (and at what time he had decided to do so).

The both of them were people that liked to stick to their set routines: Hers was the obligatory Sunday evening bath with a good book followed by an early night.

She also knew that Malcolm preferred to get up early and that he rarely slept past 7 o’clock at most — unless he was sick or there was something seriously wrong.

 

Eyeing his disheveled hair and crumpled clothes, she simply had stated:

 

“I’m guessing that something has happened?”

 

Malcolm Reed didn’t know whether to laugh or get annoyed at her dry, straightforward statement.

 

“Kind of…”

 

‘ _Brilliant_ ’, he chided himself, ‘ _Calling people up past hours and then bottling out_. _Just brilliant_.’

 

“Have you showered?” She raised an eyebrow.

 

“No. Why would it even matter? It’s not like I’m sitting next to you,” he spat out.

 

 

The previously raised eyebrow shot a bit higher, bringing it to almost Vulcan-esque heights.

 

 

“Would you mind having the mercy to tell me what the hell is going on, Malcolm?”

 

For a good bit he struggled for words.

 

“Hayes…,” he finally managed.

 

 

Madeline’s eyes became comically wide for a second.

 

 

“Wasn’t that the guy you slept with on Enterprise…? Good God, Malcolm! Did he die?”

 

 

Cringing at her jumping to conclusions (and the way she characterized Jeremiah), he felt the need to correct her.

Then he remembered that this should be the least of his worries — although, _technically_ , her assuming Hayes might have died wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities, given the Colonel’s profession.

Still he needed to backtrack quickly before their conversation derailed more than it already had.

He vehemently shook his head.

 

“No, no. But he contacted me again.”

 

He heard his sister audibly exhale, but a frown quickly followed. 

She harrumphed around for a bit.

 

“Well, that’s good to hear. I’m really relieved, Malcolm …”

She trailed off. Then her frown quickly returned, along with a decidedly confused expression. Malcolm winced.

 

“Since I have the suspicion that this might be a longer call, why don’t we get ourselves a cup of tea and talk about this, shall we?”

There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice — just like him she had a hard time suppressing it — but her smile was gentle.

 

 

And for the first time — probably ever — Malcolm Reed did exactly that: Talk.

 

 

About Hayes. Their sparring match. What it had led to.

Tiny bunk beds and 3 o’clock walk of shames back to his quarters.

The offer that Hayes had made, and how he, Malcolm, had panicked as he was faced with the decision.

About the message Hayes had sent him just days go, his confession and their spat in his kitchen.

 

 

Seeing that he more or less had started from the very beginning, he felt bad for keeping his sister up this long. It was almost midnight in London now, although Madeline kept reassuring him it was fine.

 

When he finally had finished, she looked at him contemplatively and almost somber.

He, on the other hand, almost felt light and relieved.

 

“Malcolm…,” she began, grasping for words for a moment before she asked, her voice not entirely devoid of an accusatory tone.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

 

“Because it wasn’t that important, I …”

 

“Oh, don’t you start. It was important enough to call me up at — no offence — an ungodly hour, and apparently you have been gnawing on this for a while.”

 

“No, Mads, I haven’t.”

 

“But you’ve never _moved on_! Did you ever go out with somebody else? Or even consider somebody else? Also, please don’t ‘Mads’ me.”

 

He was surprised at her sudden outburst. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or simply befuddled by the laundry list of confessions he had laid bare in front of her.

“Thirteen years, Malcolm. You have loved him for thirteen years.”

 

 

At first, her words and her bluntness confused him. Then he felt anger well up in the pit of his stomach, his mind racing, gearing up for a tirade to defend himself.

 

“I don’t love him.”

His tone had become noticeably sharper, his voice tinged with venom.

 

“Then why are you so hung up on him?”

 

“I am not hung up on him. I simply …”

He couldn’t come up with a logical explanation. Damn it. Damn it to hell.

 

“I am good on my own,” he finally said.

 

“Oh, yes, absolutely. That’s why you feel the need to call me in a frenzy out of nowhere. Wake up, Malcolm. You aren’t okay — and maybe it is time you admit it.”

 

“And what good would that do?” His voice pitched higher than he had anticipated.

 

“What are you so afraid of?”

Her question, to his surprise, held no accusations, no venom or spite. It was a neutral statement, so matter-of-fact it almost sounded dispassionate and detached.

She knew she had made an important point, having backed him into a corner he couldn’t get out of, there was no need to be overly emotional now.

 

Reed sighed. He could simply hang up on her and pretend this had never happened. But what good would that bring, now that she knew his best kept secret?

 

“It’s the way we were raised, Madeline,” he almost _Mads_ -ed her again and barely caught himself in the last second.

“The way we grew up. Feelings were irrelevant. It wouldn’t surprise me if the old bastard never really _loved_ us. Like we were some sort of burden. It’s just … I don’t even know if I want to force this kind of baggage onto anyone, to be perfectly honest.”

 

“And so you figured since our father didn’t love us or made us believe we weren’t lovable in the first place, you shouldn’t even attempt to feel anything for anyone?”

Her words, quiet as they were, stung like needles.

 

“I am not good at feelings, you know that,” Malcolm managed a pained grin.

 

“Oh, don’t you even start. There’s a reason David and I prefer to live apart.”

David and Madeline had been together for a while now, yet they always seemed to keep a polite distance — living in different flats and seeing each other when they pleased, but not every day.

“I don’t do well with having someone too close to me. I guess that’s what we both have in common — it just reeks of control, doesn’t it?”

 

She laughed; an unapologetic, pure laugh. 

 

“I thought I would get better about it after the old bastard had pegged out,” she continued, her statement drenched in a well-tempered sarcasm.

Malcolm grinned. _De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bene_ — don’t speak ill of the dead — had been a rule in the Reed household that especially their mother valued, but there was no such thing between him and Mads, especially not when it came to their father.

 

“But the truth is, even now that he is gone, it isn’t easy.”

 

Malcolm nodded.

 

“What I am saying is, Malcolm, it is on us to break those generational curses. You aren’t damned. There’s nobody telling you you’re not allowed to do this, except for yourself.

But if you continue to deprive yourself of everything … you’re letting the old bastard have his way and give him power beyond the grave. Also, keep in mind that someone who truly wants to be with you is more likely to at least try to put up with your flaws. Not that this is any guarantee.”

She shrugged, her brows furrowed.

 

“Thank you,” he murmured.

 

“No need to thank me,” she untied her ponytail and put it up in a rather sloppy, inelegant knot on top of her head.

 

“Just do me one favor please, dear brother,” if he had thought that her voice was drenched in sarcasm before, he had obviously underestimated her.

 

“What?!”

 

“Be honest with yourself and try not to screw this up, unless it’s absolutely unavoidable. And contact him. I mean it. You have a tendency to play dead.”

 

He rolled his eyes at her instead of giving her an answer.

 

 

***

 

He had planned on calling or messaging Hayes the same day.

Seeing that it was a Sunday, he wasn’t sure how much actual combat training would take place or if the Colonel was mostly going to be stuck in briefings.

He figured they could get together for dinner and drinks the following week, taking some time to talk things over — preferably without getting into another argument.

 

He sat down several times to draft up messages — only to delete every single one of them.

At the same time, he didn’t have the guts to call Hayes after he had stormed out of Malcolm’s apartment.

 

‘ _You’re_ _like a nervous teenager, Reed,_ ’ Malcolm thought grimly as he attempted to call Hayes’ number for the third time in a row via comm. Eventually he gave up.

 

 

In the end he dealt with urgent problems like he did best — by procrastinating and putting them off for as long as possible.

 

Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed; best in Starfleet, top of his job, unable to handle emotions, yet fully aware that he had three weeks at best to rectify the situation.

He was also fully aware that Jeremiah Hayes wouldn’t have more patience than the given time frame. Hayes had announced what needed to be said (and would stick to his words, that much Reed knew).

 

So against his sisters advice, Malcolm Reed didn’t contact the Colonel.

Instead he went in to work on Monday earlier than usual and stayed longer, barely leaving his desk out of fear of running into the MACO contingent training Starfleet, and kept to himself in general.

Hours turned into days, days into weeks and despite every thought of Jeremiah Hayes and his piercing green eyes stinging like a paper cut, Malcolm Reed stubbornly stuck to his routine: He ate, slept, pretended nothing was wrong and overworked himself until he sunk into bed every night, completely and utterly exhausted.

 

 

Only to be haunted by Jeremiah Hayes in his dreams again and again.

 


	4. Pavlovian Conditioning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm Reed can't deny he has a one-track mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this story is dragging, mainly because I am a) still busy with life stuff and b) I've been plagued with the most persistent writer's block and honestly everything I came up with felt like a lame cop out. I am still not 100% happy with how this chapter turned out, but I think I am getting there ... hopefully. 
> 
> As usual, this is un-beta'd. Comments, kudos and criticism are very appreciated!

For almost ten weeks Malcolm Reed had held on to his newfound routine.

 

December had turned into January, bringing the brief excitement of a new year — a low-key festivity he had spent with some coworkers — and soon after winter had yielded to milder temperatures and the first harbingers of spring.

 

He had received a message from Madeline shortly after New Years Eve, where she had wished him a happy new year and not-so-indirectly asked if he ever had contacted Hayes again.

Reed hadn’t answered — something he still felt bad about; but he didn’t know how to breach the subject yet again.

Also, more than likely her reaction would be less than thrilled. Madeline was one of these people that (if you asked her for her advice) expected you to follow through with _something_.

Not that it truly was any of her business anyway.

 

Malcolm snorted.

 

He was fine as long as he didn’t ponder on his failed relationship with Jeremiah Hayes too much.

If he did, his carefully crafted wall cracked and through the vaults poured darkness, guilt and regret with the force of a dam breaking.

So far he hadn’t done too badly — but all of that changed on a random Wednesday in March, where word made the rounds in his office that there had been an explosion on Jupiter Station.

 

After initial confusing and flat out wrong reports, a terrorist (or alien) attack could be ruled out, but finding out what had caused the incident that injured about fifteen people still had Starfleet intel and other investigating agencies working overtime.

Eventually it was determined that the explosion had been caused by incorrectly storing and securingseveral crates of explosive devices, which had been sitting in one of the cargo bays mainly used by contingents of United Earth.

Whereas the turmoil of a potential hostile attack left Malcolm Reed almost cold, the mention of United Earth definitely didn’t.

 

 

‘ _It’s like Pavlovian conditioning. Remarkable, Reed. You’re basically a dog._ ’

 

 

With a huff, he shuffled closer to his computer to start gathering more information on the incident. For completely unselfish reasons, obviously.

Which unit exactly was using the cargo bay at the time of the incident? Who was among the injured?

 

His extended research took less than an afternoon — and what he found left him even more unsettled: The cargo bay had hosted a set of space combat readiness training exercises for MACO personnel.

Malcolm Reed’s heart sank a bit further.

 

‘ _Nobody was killed_ ,’ he reminded himself.

But the memories of Hayes’ brush with death back on Enterprise came to his mind, of beeping machines and a ghostly pale man who for a brief time had died and soon after returned to the living.

 

It wasn’t hard to come up with a convenient white lie to contact Jupiter Station’s public affairs office: He was part of Starfleet Intelligence, so he had reports to write.

Luck was on his side that day: His contact on the other end of the comm line had been a shy and bashful ensign, who at first wasn’t to keen on giving out information to a stranger, intelligence analyst or not.

Malcolm Reed felt despicable doing so, but in the end had no problem pulling rank on the young man, knowing damn well the ensign was right — he shouldn’t have let a single detail slip.

But Reed also knew that most likely the ensign wouldn’t snitch on him: He had seen his type a dozen times before, all spit and polish and by-the-book as they come. The ensign wouldn’t make any of this known because it reflected badly on himself.

At one point, Reed remembered, he had been like this.

 

‘ _I wonder where that idealism went_.’

The lopsided grin that spread on Malcolm Reed’s face went unnoticed by his colleagues.

 

 

Fifteen minutes later he had the entire list of the names of those injured in the attack.

He hastily read over them, stumbling over letters and then carefully re-reading them out of fear he might miss an important detail.

 

‘ _Sergeant William C. Walsh … doesn’t ring a bell. Private Alyssa M. Herrera … Corporal Randy Grober_ …’

Malcolm Reed huffed, trying to hide a giggle welling up in his throat.

He would never understand why in God’s name Americans would give their child such an unfortunate name.

His eyes quickly scanned the list, but none of the people listed on the screen in front of him sounded familiar. Reaching the bottom of the document, he let out a sigh of relief —but his breath hitched when he re-read the last line counting those injured.

 

‘ _Colonel Jeremiah M. Hayes_.’

 

 

 

Bloody fucking shit.

 

 

His eyes shut tight, feeling the blood pulse in his veins, he suddenly was surrounded by a white noise seemingly coming from _inside_ of his body.

Dizzily he read the name again and again, making sure this wasn’t some sort of mistake.

 

‘ _Nobody was killed,_ ’ he reminded himself again, but the images came washing back like a tidal wave — Hayes on the biobed, pale as death, the fresh disruptor wound; the foul, coppery smell of blood and burned flesh.

Yet at the same time he cursed himself. He hadn’t given a damn about Hayes in the last couple months, had pushed his memory far away from him and pretended he didn’t exist; and now that he knew the Colonel was injured he suddenly came crawling back?

If this wasn’t an admission of guilt, Malcolm Reed didn’t know what was.

By the time 1600 hours rolled around he had already left his office in a hurry.

 

Upon arriving in his apartment, he didn’t even take the time to remove his boots at the door like he usually did. Carelessly tossing his jacket aside, he opened his boiler suit uniform just enough to tie the sleeves around his waist, revealing his blue undershirt.

A thin layer of sweat had started to gather on his brow — probably from basically sprinting home — yet he felt strangely cold at the same time, goose skin crawling up from his spine over his shoulders to his upper arms.

Anxiety.

He was no stranger to it, but it had been a while since the familiar feeling of fear had crept up on him.

 

“ _Are you okay?_ ”

 

The message he wrote to Hayes was even more terse and succinct than the one he had received from the Colonel, but he didn’t have the mind for elaborate speeches.

For the rest of the day, Malcolm Reed restlessly wandered around his living space like a caged animal, hoping he would receive an answer by the end of the day, but nothing happened.

The computer screen stayed dark, a perpetual derisive reminder that maybe after all Hayes didn’t care anymore, that he — rightfully — had abandoned his initial plans of giving them another chance or that his long-running affection for Malcolm finally had faded.

All of which were definitely possible, Malcolm mused. What had he expected anyways?

 

 

 

It would take three days until the pinging of an incoming message woke him. Wanting to put an end to an especially uneventful and dull day, he had gone to bed early — a futile attempt to protest said Thursday’s mediocrity — and against all odds, sleep had visited him sooner than expected. A look at the digital clock on his nightstand revealed it was only 10.34 p.m.

Rolling out of bed with a heavy sigh, he walked over to his desk, where his computer signaled the incoming message with a blinking blue light.

Upon reading the name of who had messaged him, Malcolm Reed was wide awake in an instant:

 

Hayes.

 

He hadn’t bothered ever listing his first name or even his rank.

Ranks had been for the bedroom, for exchanging secret messages full of innuendo in front of others. For the moments when they needed to be _discreet_ , and they’d had to be discreet their entire time on Enterprise.

 

Out here, in a reality where they could be — could have been — whatever they wanted to be, Hayes was simply ... Hayes.

 

 

His initial disoriented sleepiness quickly vanished to be followed by a feeling of nervous anticipation — ‘ _Pavlovian conditioning_ ,’ he couldn’t help the mental remark: He was almost giddy reading Hayes’ name on the screen, yet at the same time concerned what his former lover’s reaction would be like.

To a certain extent, the Major — the _Colonel_ , he immediately corrected himself — always had been somewhat unpredictable in his reactions.

Wide awake now, he punched in the access code to his inbox.

 

 

The message itself was short (he didn’t expect anything else) and factual, not revealing too much of the emotions Hayes might or might not have felt when answering.

 

 

“ _I’m okay — this wasn’t as much of a big deal as Starfleet made it out to be. Medical staff at Jupiter Station treated me for third degree burns, nothing too serious_.”

 

Malcolm scoffed. Third degree burns sounded serious enough to him, but he knew that the MACOs had a different approach to these things than Starfleet generally did.

 

“ _I’ll be on convalescent leave for the next two weeks, completely unnecessary, but orders are orders. Jupiter Station will keep me in sickbay for another four days. After that I’m free to stay on Jupiter Station or head over to San Francisco to have all subsequent check-ups with Starfleet medical_. _Any plans to leave the SF area soon?_ ”

 

He couldn’t tell whether the last sentence was Hayes’ way of mocking him; a small, caustic payback for their argument months ago; or simply a question.

Reed decided to ignore it.

 

For a long while, he pondered on what to say. Relief had spread out through his limbs, soothing and warm, lulling him into a state of mellow content. Malcolm wasn’t sure if exuberantly expressing how much Hayes’ message had put him at ease was a good idea.

Before he could overthink the situation any longer, he simply typed:

 

“ _I’ll be here_.”

 

He shut off the screen and went back to bed.

Upon second thought, he wondered if the reply he had sent to the Colonel was too laden with a certain equivocation apart from the simple announcement he still hadn’t buggered off to space again yet. That it was too heavy in _feelings_ , corny and sentimental.

 

He could feel his mind gearing up for mental loops — a prelude to another sleepless nights mulling over what he should have said or done instead.

Forcing his volatile brain to keep mum (and actually _stay_ quiet for once), he rolled on his side, bunching the pillows up and burying his face in the soft wad.

 

 

Hayes, as much as he thought he knew him, most likely would forever remain an enigma to him.

 


	5. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is patient. Malcolm shows feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a little hiatus I was finally able to write and add another chapter to this. All following chapters will probably take a little while, since I have been the proud owner of a tiny human for 8 weeks now :)
> 
> Comments, kudos and criticism are most welcome as usual!

_The corridors were dark and quiet, only illuminated by the hue of the faint blue nighttime lights._

 

_It was just a couple hours into the gamma shift, which meant that he most likely had about two more hours until he needed to return to his quarters if he wanted to avoid being spotted on his way back from Hayes’ habitat._

 

_He heard a sound in the background, an intermittent, almost rhythmic knocking._

_It certainly wasn’t something he ever had heard before._

_‘The engines,’ he thought sleepily._

_Commander Tucker probably had a hell of a time right now trying to figure out how to fix it. He could imagine him darting around in engineering, quietly swearing and cussing under his breath._

 

_He sighed heavily and shifted on the narrow bunk bed, doing so carefully in order to not wake Hayes, who was sound asleep next to him._

_Another aspect of the Major’s characteristics that was thoroughly military: He could fall asleep whenever the schedule allowed for some rest — leaning against the cold walls of a shuttle pod or in a bunk that was entirely too small for two people. Weaving in and out of deep sleep and high alertness was another trait the Major had mastered._

_Malcolm found it particularly interesting how he managed that. Once Hayes deemed the situation appropriate, virtually nothing could rouse him. If required though he was awake in an instant (God only knew how Hayes could distinguish the two scenarios. How did his subconscious tell him at what point danger was imminent?)._

_And whenever oh-four-thirty hours rolled around, Jeremiah was up and on the go_

 

 

_Most likely Hayes had entered his phase of lighter sleep now. Still, Reed couldn’t refrain from reaching up to touch his lover’s thick and wiry hair, tousled from sleep and from their previous lovemaking._

_Immediately (as Malcolm had predicted) Hayes opened his eyes._

 

_But instead of the expected vibrant green — a sparkle, a hint of curiosity mixed with condescension —, what he saw was clouded over, milky and without a distinct expression and he knew right away that the eyes he looked into were dead._

 

_The knocking picked up again, the first two times louder than the next three, followed by a short pause._

_The eyes still stared back at him and all of a sudden he could smell it: The familiar scent of burned flesh creeping in through the air vents, filling the room._

 

 

 

Upon opening his eyes his first thought was that he _immediately_ needed to comm Tucker. If the strange noise didn’t stem from an engine malfunction, they might be dealing with a bigger issue: Such as an intruder alert or a hostile attack.

Both in which case he needed to act quickly.

 

Then he realized he still wasn’t on Enterprise.

But no matter how many times he reminded himself that the past was indeed just that — the past — his subconscious always reverted back to his time serving aboard the vessel.

 

 

Malcolm Reed didn’t know what had woken him in the first place — the feeling of deep unsettledness stemming from yet another nightmare or realizing that the sound he had deemed to be Enterprise’s engines hadn’t just been a part of his dream.

Someone was indeed knocking on the door to his apartment.

 

He checked the time. It was quarter past eight — not exactly the time he would expect company (nor did he care for any at this ungodly hour).

Groaning and uttering curses he got out of bed, hastily tried to tame his disheveled hair and walked to his apartment door to peek through the peephole.

 

If this was some kind of solicitor or someone attempting to sell him either a type of security or comm system (or some religious nutcase), he knew he’d instantly lose his temper.

But on the other side of the door was no salesperson nor anyone wanting to talk to him about the glorious power of a higher being.

 

Instead, the face he spotted looked familiar, despite it being extremely bruised.

He could see Hayes move awkwardly on the spot, waiting for Malcolm to open the door.

For a moment he considered playing dead and wait until the Colonel buggered off — then he remembered the message he had sent. It would be more than hypocritical to shut Hayes out again, literally.

 

Reed swallowed hard, breathing in deeply, trying to untangle the knot that had formed in the pit of his stomach.

There was no turning back now.

He had to face Hayes eventually, unless he wanted to be trapped in his apartment like a rodent cornered by a cat.

 

 

The Colonel flinched when Malcolm rather abruptly opened the door. The puzzled look on Hayes’ face told him that there must have been some sort of disconnect in communication.

 

“You’re here.”

More a statement than a question, Reed couldn’t help the wry remark.

Of course Hayes was here.

He was standing right in front of him. In uniform of all things, like he had nothing else to wear on a day where he clearly wasn’t even on duty.

Yet Malcolm couldn’t help the feeling of relief that washed over him: Hayes was here indeed, and he was alive. How many times did he think the last time he’d see him would be in a casket, covered by a flag neatly draped over?

How many times did he dream of Hayes’ death?

 

“I am.”

Hayes’ response was equally dry, and Reed watched him furrow his brow in slow-motion like he was trying very hard to understand what was going on.

It was simultaneously awkward and hilarious.

 

After a brief moment of silence, the Colonel finally said something, a welcome reprieve for Malcolm who was too intimidated by the situation to open his mouth.

 

“Did you get my message?”

 

‘ _A crossing of wires_ ,’ Reed thought. How else could this somewhat bizarre encounter be explained?

Then he realized he had muted all subsequent incoming messages from Hayes — not out of malice, but to avoid permanently hovering over his computer, waiting for a sign from the man.

 

“What message?” Reed blurted out, only becoming aware it made him sound like a simpleton after the fact.

He never had un-muted Hayes’ number after the fact. And soon after forgotten that he probably should have done so.

 

Hayes frowned again.

“I messaged you after I received your comm a couple weeks ago. Since I was released from sickbay I took the first shuttle down to San Francisco Space Port and asked you if you wanted me to drop by. I figured no news is good news, so to speak...,” he trailed off.

“And since I didn’t hear from you...”

 

Hayes shrugged.

Since he knew Jeremiah Hayes there had been almost no instances where Malcolm had seen him like that: Hesitant and unsure what to do, almost bashful.

The Colonel wasn’t one to flaunt his insecurities, but instead of masking them with aggression and machismo he remained quiet and simply looked at Malcolm, waiting for some sort of reaction.

 

“I muted your incoming messages,” Reed simply said.

Why lie?

It was too early for him to come up with a convenient little excuse anyway.

 

“Oh.”

Did he hear annoyance in Hayes’ voice? Or did he sound upset?

 

To extend the figurative olive branch, Reed simply stepped aside, gesturing Hayes to enter his apartment.

 

“Come on in. I’ll make coffee.”

 

 

***

 

Hayes seemed surprised that Reed decided to forego his usual Darjeeling and instead opt for coffee himself.

 

Instead of beating around the bush or waste time with pleasantries, the Colonel got straight to the point.

“So, you said you were available, but muted all incoming messages from me … for what purpose exactly?”

 

“I found them distracting,” Reed answered truthfully, “And I wasn’t sure if my last one might have come off as sappy. I didn’t mean to.”

 

“I didn’t think it was. And even so, I wouldn’t call you out on it. I know you don’t do feelings, Malcolm.”

 

It was rare that Hayes used his first name, but the lopsided smirk on his face told Reed that his former lover didn’t hold any grudges — or at least, not _yet_.

 

“And I want to be there …,” the Brit trailed off.

 

“But?”

 

“I’m pants at relationships, Hayes. And I’m afraid I’ve fucked this one up beyond the point of no return.”

 

“Oh, believe me, I would not be here if that was the case,” Hayes threw in casually.

“If the last couple weeks have shown me anything, I don’t think my patience with you is ever going to run out.”

 

 

Reed chuckled.

Then, he felt tears stinging in the corner of his eyes.

 

Good God, the last thing he needed is to start bawling in front of Hayes, but before he could stop himself — slamming his hand on the table, scoffing at this outburst of emotions he couldn’t control — he buried his head in the crook of his arm and sobbed.


	6. Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A circle closes. Malcolm Reed leaves the past behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hi! I am still alive and this series is still ongoing, although almost done.  
> I am still in the throes of tiny human taming, but I'm hoping that eventually we'll be on some sort of schedule here (Lord knows I need more time to write). 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thank you to everyone who has left kudos, bookmarked this fic or even left a comment, I truly appreciate it :)

He’d had his flings.

There was a young waiter at a cafe he used to have his Saturday brunch with friends at. A Frenchman — ironically enough —, whom he had invited over to his place once or twice a couple years ago, contradictory to his principles of being wary of who he let into his living space.

He had felt shabby afterwards.

Mainly because he had used the guy, but also because their age gap made him feel old.

 

Then there had been a former colleague who ... Reed scoffed quietly. Nothing ever had come of it, except for a plethora of innuendo-laden banter. When the banter didn’t lead to a relationship, things had become awkward.

When said colleague then had moved to another division located in a different building of the complex, Reed had been more than grateful for his absence.

 

There had been one night stands and the one or the other extended make-our session in a club he used to frequent.

But his encounters always had remained shallow, a bland copy of things he’d experienced before. Things that he longed for.

 

He nipped at the collarbone beneath his lips; biting harder, plying the soft warm flesh.

His hands roamed over the uneven craters of an old scar — a familiar yet strange feeling. His fingers traced down the chest, pausing at a nipple to rub and tease it.

He had missed this: The distinct taste of skin, the feeling of a day’s worth of stubble as he slid a hand up his lover’s neck.

The way Hayes breathed heavily under his touch just loud enough to communicate pleasure, but staying silent otherwise. Like they still had to be discreet after all these years.

 

Madeline’s words echoed in his mind,

 

‘Thirteen years, Malcolm. You have loved him for thirteen years.’

 

Now that he felt Hayes’ skin under his fingertips and played with his tongue, sucking and biting, caressing his lower lip from time to time, he felt like he had deprived himself of something so vital — like the air he breathed or the soothing cup of tea to ease his troubled mind on a bad day.

For what?

Out of stubborn pride and the ghost of the Old Bastard that somehow still roamed his life and living space.

 

Kissing Hayes felt like a holy exorcism.

 

The Colonel had aged gracefully.

He was still buff, but not as chiseled as he used to be back when he led the MACO contingent on Enterprise.

Maybe a bit bulkier, less defined.

Softer around the waist (although it was probably better if he didn’t tell Hayes exactly that).

He raked a hand through Hayes’ wiry hair, watching the afternoon sunlight cast a silver gleam in the salt and pepper around his temples.

Despite everything, he had grown older.

Despite everything he hadn’t died.

 

Reed let out a quiet hum and snaked his arm around Hayes — Jeremiah, he corrected himself — pulling him closer.

 

He hadn’t planned on letting this kind of intimacy happen so quickly, but after they had sat together discussing the latest in weapons technology and reminiscing about their time on Enterprise one thing had lead to the other and ...

At first every fiber of his body had protested — too soon, too quickly — but he hadn’t slowed down either.

He didn’t mind now.

 

Rays of sunlight flooded the living room, their languid movements reflecting in large shadows on the wall. A trail of clothing littered from the dinner table over into the vicinity of the couch.

Hayes scoffed and lazily swiped an array of throw pillows off the couch before pulling Malcolm down with him. Almost tripping over a stray pillow, Reed followed suit.

 

One detail — he couldn’t help but notice — had changed in Jeremiah’s behavior though. He remembered how their previous lovemaking, some decade ago, had always been a struggle for dominance. A power play each time, trying to gain a certain amount of control over each other (and reveling in it).

Now Hayes seemed more mellow, tame almost.

A mellowness of age, maybe?

Reed let out a small chuckle.

 

“Whats so funny?” Hayes mumbled almost inaudibly.

 

“Nothing.”

Despite his best attempts his sarcasm showed through. Hayes reply was a brief eye roll. Then he bit down on Malcolm’s neck, who let out a brief laugh.

Hayes’ hands roamed down his chest, heading south viciously slow.

The feeling was new and yet familiar at the same time.

 

And then, in the matter of a second, maybe less; the feeling overwhelmed Commander Malcolm Reed: The bittersweetness, encompassing everything — memories of the first tentative flirting to nights spent together in secret to a future together that never happened — pouring in like dark honey. It was idle and futile — yes, absolutely pointless — to mourn the time lost now, and he heard the Old Bastard rasp one of his favorite expressions: “Water under the bridge!”

 

The realization was painful and with said pain came the desire to somehow make up for the time lost, to devour Hayes, to surrender to him until there was nothing left.

Malcom Reed’s grip became tighter, kneading the soft flesh under his hands, cupping the Colonel’s ass.

Kisses grew hungrier and he knew he had undone Hayes now.

With a firm bite to his lover’s lower lip the Jeremiah Hayes he new so well returned: Assertive, dominant, putting Reed in his place.

Only this time the Commander didn’t fight back, not even in the slightest playful way.

 

He reached for Hayes’ cock and started pumping, savoring the heat and the feeling of soft skin against his fingertips, hearing his lover gasp for breath.

He felt Hayes’ hands roam over his body restlessly, his lips nuzzling his throat — until suddenly the Colonel grabbed both of Reed’s wrists with one hand and pulled them over Malcolm’s head, not leaving any room to wriggle himself out of the firm grip.

The act made his desire reach a fever pitch. That and the fact he knew that Jeremiah was close, otherwise he hadn’t interrupted what Malcolm had been doing.

 

Hayes’ green eyes, seemingly a bit darker now, studied Reed’s slightest move.

His wrists still in the vise-like grip of his lover’s hands, he watched Jeremiah Hayes as he brought his hand to his mouth and spat on it, coating the head of his cock in saliva and entering Reed without much warning or preparation.

 

The pain was exquisite — searing hot and cold at the same time, making Reed gasp and whine.

Hayes touched his lips and Malcolm bit his hand, trying to stifle the scream he felt rising from the back of his throat as he felt Hayes move inside him.

 

He heard Jeremiah Hayes’ gasps and groans, and with each thrust Malcolm Reed became fire, lava and ashes all the same.

 

 

 

He woke up hours later.

Rain had started to fall, and the steady _tap tap tap_ against the living room window almost felt hypnotic.

A thin blanket he kept on the couch was laid over them now. Hayes must have covered them after Malcolm had already fallen asleep.

Hayes laid next to him, crammed against the back of the couch, having succumbed to a deep slumber — judging from his soft snoring.

The blinds hadn’t been drawn and occasionally the bright lights of passing vessels illuminated the room briefly.

 

Even after all these years their bodies still fit like a jigsaw puzzle, no matter how small the space they shared.

It was like nothing had ever really changed.

 

The rain kept falling and Malcolm Reed fell back into a dark, dreamless, peaceful sleep.

 


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Maybe this is what everything is about', he mused.
> 
> Repelling the demons of the past.

Malcolm Reed stared at his empty, barren couch.

The blanket was still there, folded up over the armrest in its usual spot.

He had a hard time getting used to it.

 

It definitely had looked nicer when the throw pillows had still been there. Cozier.

Now it looked utilitarian. A bit uninviting even.

 

He felt a pair of strong arms wrapping themselves around his waist. Hayes buried his face in the crook of his neck, letting out a huff of warm breath.

 

“You pissed off?”

 

Malcolm ignored the lack of proper syntax and turned his head to face Jeremiah.

 

“It looked better before,” he growled.

 

“But they were taking up too much space. Plus, I thought we had…”

 

“Compromised, yes. I’ll live,” he put special emphasis on the last sentence, accompanying it with a theatrical sigh.

 

It had been roughly four months since, after a lot of back-and-forth, they’d cut bait and decided that Hayes would move in.

The ensuing re-arranging and re-designing of their living space had made Malcolm regret his decision at first, but for now it seemed like the worst had been over.

The pillows he dearly missed had found a new home on his coworker’s couch.

 

Jeremiah had — after a lot of careful thought on his part — taken the job he had been offered months ago. He no longer shipped out to space: There were no drills and trainings and extended visits to combat zones anymore.

Much to his dismay, his new position at the joint command involved a lot more paper-pushing than he had anticipated and he voiced his discontent about said part of the job frequently (and much to Malcolm’s annoyance).

On the other hand, Reed was relieved he no longer had to fear for the Colonel’s life.

That was something. It was, in fact, a lot.

And it made up for the fact that sometimes he still felt like his privacy and space were being invaded.

 

‘ _You’re a sodding hermit, Reed_.’

 

On a Thursday night, Trip commed out of the blue.

Malcolm had taken the video communique reluctantly at first — mainly because he knew he would have some explaining to do and wasn’t sure how Trip would handle the surprise.

The breach of trust, to be precise.

In hindsight, Malcolm couldn’t believe that in all this time he never had as much uttered a word about him and Hayes.

 

As the conversation continued on Reed frantically searched for a way to break the news to Trip — but no matter which way he tried to approach it, nothing really seemed to work just right.

 

‘ _Oh on that note, Trip, remember the MACO bloke from over a decade ago that I beat to pulp in a sparring match? We live together now_.’

 

Reed scoffed. Yeah, no.

 

The predicament was soon ended by Hayes walking into the bedroom, clad in only a towel wrapped around his hips after having finished his shower.

 

A blond eyebrow shot up and Malcolm witnessed the familiar motion: a tongue flicking out and then resting between Trip Tucker’s lips, bearing witness to the man’s confusion.

Hayes was his usual self, coolness and professionalism personified.

 

“Hi, Tucker.”

 

He had entered the room quietly, nonchalantly even, and had greeted Trip in the same unconcerned (but friendly) way. Without further ado, Hayes left as quickly as he had come in.

 

“Is that who I think it is? I had no idea you and Hayes were even on speaking terms.”

 

“We live together,” Reed blurted out.

 

Trips eyes got wide.

“So… you’re, like, roommates now or what?”

 

Malcolm’s nervous laugh sounded daft to his own ears, but he couldn’t help it — the situation was too bizarre for him to keep his composure. He rubbed his eyes, watery from laughing, and tried to keep a straight face.

 

“He’s my …”

 

_Boyfriend?_

No, he couldn’t use that. It reminded him too much of a high school romance, of holding hands and snogging in secret to avoid the teacher’s prying eyes.

 

“… partner,” he eventually settled for.

 

He couldn’t tell whether Trip was just completely floored or also mildly annoyed.

 

“He is what? … Malcolm, you never told me about that!”

 

Reed couldn’t even finished his stammered half-apology, half-justification.

 

“Since when?” Trip’s voice had reached an almost comical pitch.

 

“Enterprise.”

 

“What?!”

 

“We had … a thing on Enterprise, but it wasn’t too…,” Malcolm Reed struggled for words, nervously twiddling with a pen he had found on his desk. This was starting to become more and more of an interrogation if he didn’t offer up a bit more explanation, so he simply surrendered and gave Trip the details he needed to hear.

 

At the end of the conversation Tucker looked utterly confused and exhausted, but happy nonetheless. They promised to talk again soon and Malcolm gave his best regards to Danielle and the kids.

 

 

By the next week, temperatures had dropped significantly. The first harbinger of winter — a crisp bite to the morning air — spread out its icy fingers.

Reed had planned on visiting his mother and sister over the Christmas holidays. He debated whether or not he should invite Hayes along and felt shabby for even considering sweeping their relationship under the rug again. ‘ _Old habits die hard_ ’, he thought.

In the end he had left the decision up to Jeremiah, who — both to Reed’s delight and dismay — seemed very excited to truck along.

Malcolm Reed feared the stuffy environment and maybe his mother’s disappointment about his secretive and reclusive lifestyle, but most of all he dreaded the ghost of the Old Bastard roaming the house where he had spent a significant amount of his life.

 

He shook his head, trotting into the kitchen to make tea.

Hayes was cutting vegetables.

Malcolm Reed would take over dinner duties from there. The Colonel had a plethora of strong suits, but cooking was none of them.

Pouring milk into his cup of tea, he watched the clouds of white swirl, repelling the darker liquid until only an opaque layer of white remained.

 

‘ _Maybe this is what everything is about_ ’, he mused.

 

Repelling the demons of the past.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has read this fic, left kudos or even commented. I appreciate each and everyone of you!


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